3. The Dubois Château
CHAPTER THREE
THE DUBOIS CH?TEAU
I nvitations and fake identifications were shown at the wide open, heavily surveilled, wrought-iron gates, and their hire-for-the-night black Mercedes drove through. It crunched to a stop, they stepped out, and as it drove on, Joe’s shoulders and heart wilted. “You can’t be serious.”
“I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Percy replied, stepping up the ancient stone stairs onto a long, grey, gothic bridge.
“You also told me it would be a moat,” Joe whispered, catching up fast. “This is a lake, not a moat.”
“Hence the boat,” said Percy, raising a fake smile at a zombie who passed by with a slutty Freddie Krueger. Grimacing disdainfully, he followed slowly in their wake, saying quietly, “This is why we do a sweep first. Pictures and blueprints can’t compare. Those documents are several years old and Dubois is just the sort of tasteless bastard to do an interior redesign—put in a home cinema and a shark tank where a three-hundred-year-old dining hall should have been. We carefully, discreetly, trace our intended path around the palace to make sure it’s all as it should be, then if it is, we do it again for real.”
Bolstered a little by his confidence, Joe’s hand slipped beneath the folds of Percy’s cloak and grasped his reassuring fingers. “Thanks for bringing me in on this.”
His sweetly spoken words pulled Percy’s attention almost entirely from the job at hand. “Are you having fun yet?”
Giving his slightly shy smile that Percy adored, “I think I am, actually.”
With a flick of his wrist, Percy took Joe by surprise, twirling him into a cold, dark corner, wedged between the palace and the bridge’s stonework, enshrouded by Percy’s cape. Hot, heady perfume, Percy’s warm lips on his own, the grind of Percy’s thigh between his.
“You said, ‘discreet’,” Joe laughed, not at all inclined to leave the shelter Percy had created, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind how so very few weeks had turned him from virgin priest into sex-obsessed, high-class criminal.
Then Percy whispered, “I love you,” and Joe knew exactly how it had happened.
Percy kissed him one more time, softly, tenderly, then released him from the delightful prison. Joe stepped unsteadily towards the light of the gigantic doors, slipping his fingers out of Percy’s grasp seconds before they stepped through.
Wealth assaulted him like a Ming dynasty vase smashing his face to pieces. Shocking wealth that Percy was accustomed to, that set Joe on edge every time.
The ceiling was two storeys high in the entrance hall, blinding white, thickly adorned with elaborate cornices all around. A ponderous crowning mould lay in the centre, its grapes and leaves licking and lilting down to a spectacular chandelier, where thousands of perfectly cut crystals shone their orderly superiority over all below.
To their left, a wide staircase split and regrouped over and over to lead the guests to the recesses of the palace in a display almost as disorienting as a painting by Escher. In front and to the right, more arched stone doorways that led to who knew where.
Joe should have known, because he had studied the layout, but faced with the light and the statues, and the actual knights’ armour that was too stereotypical to be true, and, worst of all, more people than he had imagined, all knowledge fled. So many people kissing cheeks and laughing through perfect teeth and too-high cheekbones, and all who apparently knew one another, and so many, wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder.
That was when Joe realised.
It was impossible.
How had he imagined they would sneak a priceless work of art out of a literal castle in the middle of a party? This was probably the time to inform Percy of the error of his ways—he must not have realised the enormity of the task any more than Joe had.
Yet Percy only surveyed the room with calculating eyes, plucked two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray, and nodded for Joe to follow.
The guests were dressed in considered, tailored, flamboyant costumery—well, all except slutty Freddy Krueger—but the crowd still parted for Percy as though he had been the Red Death himself. Only sexier. Whether it was lust or envy, pause was given wherever he walked, as though they all sensed he belonged front and centre. He sipped from his crystal flute, threw a charming smile with a glitter of ruby wherever he thought it might work best, and he began a smooth reconnaissance of the mansion, pressing a hand back to Joe when they passed through an especially narrow or dark passage, to check he was still within arm’s reach.
How, Joe knew not, but Percy led them unerringly through the exact procession of rooms they had practised in theory so many times. Richly adorned lounges, excessively decorated sitting rooms, disused but expensively stocked and tidy kitchens, and to a square living area at the far end of the palace, which sat at the base of the stairs that led to the turret.
Unfortunately, that room was neither empty nor depleted as they had hoped it might be. That room had become the drug den.
Half a dozen guests were making use of a large, rich, oak coffee table, polished to a glass-like finish, perfect for lining up and snorting lines of cocaine, while another dozen or more stood around talking. But even with the large gathering, terrible music played loudly, low lights illuminated very little, and, all things considered, it should have been a cinch to pass through the preoccupied group and up the stairs relatively unnoticed.
Percy took the chance and moved seamlessly through the space, but just as he approached the stairs, he diverted. Joe watched the dark shapes of two large men descend and take up position at the base of the stairs.
Security.
Not ideal.
Percy turned, and in a starkly atypical move (for anyone who knew him), he bumped clumsily into a man whose face had heretofore been dipped and hidden behind a rolled Belgian franc note. A man who, when standing, revealed bright blue sequined hot pants beneath a Belgian-flag-coloured bodysuit, topped with oversized, red-rimmed fake glasses. A man they both recognised as Philippe Dubois.
“Oh, god,” Percy couldn’t help responding to the ocular onslaught.
“Watch it, Dracula,” Dubois sneered.
“Please accept my apologies.” Percy stepped deftly around him.
Joe followed Percy out of the room, and some hot, confusing time later, fresh, cool air swept over them, as they passed into the large courtyard. If it could be called a courtyard. The huge square was hemmed in on three sides by guesthouses, stables, and a garage for sixteen expensive cars, open, so everyone could see the contents. A wide, circular stone drive was heavily peopled by chatting guests, and in the middle sat a large, brightly illuminated pool. Beyond that, the wide moat-lake enclosed the lot.
“This is more like it,” said Percy, finding a relatively quiet spot against a wall, pulling his golden cigarette case free and snapping it open for Joe.
“It’s not going to work,” Joe informed him immediately, loosening two cigarettes from their gentle clasp.
“Don’t be like that,” Percy grumbled. He accepted the smoke Joe shoved between his beautiful lips, and he flicked his richly etched, matching golden lighter open.
“Look around.” Joe shared the flame, then took a desperately needed deep inhalation. “We cannot sneak a painting past this many people.”
“I don’t see anyone in the moat.” Percy passed a glance towards the moss-laden water sparkling in the dark. “It’s filthy. It’s well-hidden. It takes us right beneath the bedroom we need.” He turned towards Joe, leaning a shoulder into the building. “Don’t lose your nerve now. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t just sneak in there, destroy it, and then, I don’t know, jump in the lake or something.”
“I’m not getting this corset wet. Do you know how much this cost?”
Joe grimaced. “I don’t want to know.”
“If you knew, you wouldn’t want to risk the seven hundred thousand.” Joe threw back some champagne to hide his irritation as Percy went on, “We’ve been hired to do a job and we’re going to do it. If we burn the painting publicly, word will get out it’s been destroyed, and our buyer will be off with the cash. But more importantly, while this is your first real criminal enterprise, please keep in mind that I have a reputation to uphold.”
Joe watched Percy studying the courtyard, and Joe studied his chin and cheek to see that all his rubies were still present. He’d made a reasonable point. Percy had told him from the start that he, an art historian well respected in his field, also trafficked fine arts and artefacts. And Joe took that for what it was. High-class crime—rich people passing paintings between one another. None of it held much interest for him. But then he found out Percy was also, on occasion, a hit man. Though as far as he knew, he tended only to kill dreadful people. That was charming in its way, the way being that Joe adored Percy and could think no ill of him. But to hear the term ‘reputation’ set Joe’s mind wandering. Who was Percy Ashdown to the world at large? To the criminal underworld? To museums and galleries and universities? To the elite world of princesses and billionaires he navigated as well as that of the small, privileged college where they’d first met over an exorcism.
Growing up, Joe’s entire life had been one small village high in the Apennines of Italy. Then, following the incident, he had joined the Church. Demons, ghosts, all awful and dead and dangerous things became his obsession and his purpose. He had been sent to fight them numerous times. He had been to Hell and back. He had stolen, transferred and hidden protected supernatural objects, and here and only here his path intersected with Percy’s. Percy was drawn to the same supernatural relics Joe was, and that was the spark that originally brought them together.
But for all the wealth of the Church, it was always cloistered away. Many a golden hall had Joe walked, but outside those secret rooms he was paid only a small stipend, living on Church- owned land, taking relative ownership of a beautiful cottage and cathedral only because it was one of the most dangerous locations of any church, anywhere, and no one else was stupid enough to accept it.
The world Joe inhabited day to day was nothing like Percy’s, and he wasn’t sure he would ever truly understand its inner workings. Or ever know any of the people who knew a different ‘Percy Ashdown’ to the one he adored.
So what could he do? Back out and leave Percy to face the murderous painting alone? Or trust that Percy knew his work well enough to have the reputation he spoke of? Well enough to be able to pull this off…
Percy spun around to him at that exact moment and thrust a shapely hand beneath his chin. Onto this he tap-tapped a small line of white powder, then raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Courage?”
Joe gasped, bulging eyes scanning the crowd. “Where did you get that?”
“I pickpocketed Dubois.”
He may have been lightly shocked, but Joe couldn’t hide the fact he was also impressed with how smoothly he’d done it. “Did you know that was him?”
“Actually, no.” Percy laughed. “He was just the easiest mark.”
“And how do you know what that even is?” asked Joe, eyeing the powder.
“Well, you’re hardly going to bring speed to a party like this.”
“That’s it? That’s your drug safety talk of tonight?”
“Look.” Percy dabbed his finger hurriedly into the line and thrust it towards Joe’s mouth.
“Get that away from me!” Joe snapped, slapping at his hand.
With a heavy sigh, Percy shoved up a lip, exposing his sharp fang, and ran the powder over his gums. He held up a finger for one, two, three seconds. “Numbing,” he announced. “It’s clearly cocaine. Just like I said.”
Joe tsked in defeat, pulled Percy’s hand close, and sniffed the line away, soon coughing on the rotten taste at the back of his throat, which he washed down with the good champagne. “You know, you probably shouldn’t have stolen that.”
“He’ll never know it was me,” said Percy, doing the same. “Now, I will escort you to the room?—”
“I don’t need an escort,” Joe declared, already emboldened by the fast-acting drugs.
“I will accompany my compellingly sexy fiancé upstairs,” Percy corrected. “Then I’ll bring the fake painting across in the boat. Don’t leave that window unless you have trouble, in which case, I’ll know not to come. But if you’re there, throw the rope down, I’ll attach it, then I’ll come and help you pull the painting up.”
“This is almost too easy,” Joe said on a wide grin.
Percy smiled back. “Drugs are doing their thing?”
With a happy nod, “We should bring this to every heist.”
“All right, darling,” said Percy, trying to refocus his attention. “Let’s go insi?—”
“You look really nice.” Joe’s head tilted to the side, his speech coming a little sheepishly. “I like your rubies.”
Percy lowered a stern eyebrow. “Did you have dinner? That’s gone straight to your head.”
“It’s not that.” Joe let a hand slide softly down Percy’s chest, moving his body closer. “I’ve been thinking it all night. I just thought I should say it. Out loud. I’m glad you wore them. You’re beautiful.”
It was a dangerous thing, Joe’s allure. Enough to put Percy out of business entirely if he kept on that way. Percy might have considered him a natural flirt, charmingly artless as he was, but Joe’s flirting was never directed at anyone else. Ever. Small as Percy thought the weakness in himself, there was something particularly captivating about that. Being the sole object of Joe’s adoration was more intoxicating than their ill-gotten cocaine, and Percy was on the verge of losing his battle to keep his villainous professionalism, therefore he arrested Joe’s hand before it could drift any lower. “One more word, and I’m taking you to the stables.”
Joe felt Percy’s palm settle across his challenging lips as he attempted to speak again. A promising thrill of vampire teeth nipped his neck, settled with the giddying tickle of Percy’s tongue all the way to his ear, then he slipped away in a swirl of red silk and black roses, leaving Joe to chase breathlessly after him.